


[ENGSUB] Idol Producer 5 with LAY, Kris Wu, Z.TAO, Lu Han

by dead_dove



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack, Idol Producer AU, M/M, everyone else is a skinny trainee drinking too much nongfu spring vitamin water, the entire chinaline are celebrities, why did i forget to tag this as crack THIS IS CRACK
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 00:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18042278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dead_dove/pseuds/dead_dove
Summary: in which iQiYi decided to just fuck it and got new mentors: kris wu for rap, z.tao for dance, and luhan for singing, with lay zhang still the nation’s producer.meanwhile, all minseok wanted was to meet tvxq.





	1. S05E01: Pre-Audition

**Author's Note:**

> unedited.

 

Minseok swiped his clammy hands on his jeans. These were his very best, given to him by his sister, Minji, who was majoring in fashion design. Although he initially had doubts about his sister’s chosen path (chalk it up to spending too much time with his Asian grand aunties and them drilling into him how much he, as the eldest, should encourage his sister to pursue a “worthy” career), there was no doubt that his sister had talent. Not necessarily in design (but then again, what did he know about fashion), but with finding luxury brands in the dustiest of thrift stores.

So did it matter that his sweater had a suspicious hole in the back and a more suspicious stain in the front? Nope, not really when there’s two large overlapped Cs adorning its front. There used to be a little ribbon and some rhinestones at the end of one of the Cs, but his sister singed them off. According to her, ribbons were for girls with tiaras dancing Blackpink in the beauty pageants their moms force them to join, not for auditions for idols. Idol auditions demand the trends of high fashion, and with Kris Wu and Z.Tao as the judges, being _in_ was basically imperative.

Hence, an embroidered pig patch instead of the ribbon. It didn’t make sense to him, but Minji just tutted her tongue at him. Gucci did it, she had said. And besides, he might be able to get some luck from the Year of the Pig.

Minseok took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his jeans again. His sister’s raised eyebrows flittered across his mind, chastising him from ruining his selve-selfe-selvy— _his jeans_. This was A.P.C. (or was it A.T.C.?). Who cared when he was going home anyway?

Here he was, 28 years old, in the middle of a line of tall, slender boys who were all vying to become part of the next new boy group. Fidgeting, almost shaking a bit—that was how he was while being surrounded with kids that looked like they had years and years of training before coming into here. And judging from the tanned kid practicing some sort of smooth interpretative dance in the corner, _yeah_ , everyone looked like this was just one of their many recitals.

Suddenly, he was jostled by the tall kid beside him, whose laughter apparently entailed bodily harm to those near him. He couldn’t see his face very well, as the boy had his back turned against him, but his flailing gangly limbs, large ears, and deep and even larger voice told Minseok that whoever this kid was, he was going to get in. There was something about his aura and his overall personality that just screamed having legions and legions of fans. He and that dancer kid—they’d be a hit with the girls, for sure.

Minseok was told to never eavesdrop—not a good habit for a gentleman, his mother would say—but he couldn’t help but try to listen into the laughing boy and his friends’ conversation. He hoped Minji would be proud—she always reprimanded him for being too nice, anyway.

Apparently, the laughing kid had been telling his two friends about one of his talents, and so far, his offering had been downing a bottle of water in under 3 seconds. Well, that would be good for the variety shows. The two other boys seemed impressed, and asked for a sample performance sometime soon.

Fuck, why was Minseok reporting on other people’s lives as if he doesn’t have any of his own? Ah, right. He didn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, auditioning, when he had 28 years of living in this cruel harsh world and virtually 0 experience. (He had finally conceded five minutes into stepping into this waiting room that _fine_ , his years of singing in the shower didn’t count as training.)

Then, the laughing boy turned serious, and talked about wanting to rap. Minseok zoned out over the boy’s ten minute passionate tirade about wanting to meet Kris Wu, but he was soon bought back to the living world when he heard the laughing boy ask about what his friends wanted.

Both the elfish-looking boy and the one with the droopy eyes mentioned how much they’d like to sing, but not really hoping for much. Then they all bowed down, their shoulders slumped, as they tried to think about their perceived impending failure.

Minseok wanted to hit them all at the back of their heads. They were so young, and he was willing to bet that these kids had more talent in their toenails than he had, even with his years of training with Professor Showerhead.

These kids were _kids_ —so young, with their whole lives ahead of them and here they were, holding hands like they were in some sort of a prayer circle. This shouldn’t be a matter of life or death for them.

Minseok felt a bubble of laughter threaten to surface from him. Funny. _It was fucking funny_.

Sometimes he forgot that this _was_ a matter of life or death for most of these kids—the life or death of their _dreams_. It was hard to be incredibly empathetic on his part, anyway, when he has long let go of any kind of dream that he once had.

LOL.  
HAHAHA.  
hand emoji 🤙  
high-on-opiates emoji 😜

So when that small voice in his head tried to come back again, eager to nag him and ask him why he was even here, he was quick to brush off any mentions of his dreams.

 _SHIM CHANGMIN_ , he yelled at that teasing voice trying to taunt him again. He repeated it again, and again, and _again_ , until it became a mantra to blocking off any wild thoughts.

 _TVXQ is the way, the life, and the only destination and that’s all that matters. They’re the only reason I’m here. The_ only _reason_ , he repeated over and over, rehashing his same spiel—albeit more elaborate—that he gave to Minji when he told her he was going to try out for Idol Producer.

At least she wasn’t here to snort then double into laughter in front of him.

Somehow, in the middle of him performing the Step 1 and Step 2 of his emotional breakdown routine, the trio decided to sing and practice to ease off their nerves.

And all it did, unfortunately, was to spike _his_  nerves up.

The elfish-looking kid sang like an angel, his voice clear and face annoying free of any distress. Then he reached a note that Minseok couldn’t even name and he got even more annoying in his eyes. The droopy-eyed kid just smiled and harmonized, barfing ad-lib after ad-lib like he was the long-lost child of Mariah Carey, while the kid with the large eyes beatboxed and air-guitared. Now, Minseok wasn’t an expert in guitars, nor did he know how to play any kind of instruments (well, except the xylophone—he was an ace at that), but from how the gangly boy moved, he looked like he knew _exactly_ what fret and string he was playing. And then lastly, to top it all off, because God hated him, the tall kid—with the self-professed passion for rapping—opened his mouth and decided to _sing alone_.

Honestly. . . .

Minseok was—

He was—

He sighed. He really hoped his mother didn’t have that hysterectomy last year, because he would really _really_ like to go back to her uterus to reminisce the first and only time he had felt comfort, and never go back to this world ever again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

This season’s auditions were different from how the auditions of the past seasons went. After Minji decided to stop clowning him about trying to pursue his “long-lost dream over being an idol” (her words, not his—all he wanted was to meet Changmin), she dived headfirst into the seediest of forums to try and gain “intelligence” (again, her words, not his) about the show for his advantage.

He let her be, as he figured that every piece of help would be good, right? So that’s how he found out that apparently, _this season_ was the most awaited one, primarily because no one knew what was going to happen.

With Kris Wu, Z.Tao, Luhan, and Lay Zhang all in the same show, it was bound to be interesting. How could you put four people from one of the biggest _disbanded_ groups of all time and not expect some sort of conflict? It was a recipe for disaster.

Minseok only hoped that their disaster would be worse than the one that he was going to show later.

Mainly due to Kris’ influence (and according to Minji’s gossip, his predilection to making sure things get done _his_ way), the first round of auditions had the judges interfering already. Some of the potential trainees in the waiting room were accepted by Kris in the first round, the others by Luhan, and so on—well, you get the point.

For Minseok, Z.Tao was the one who greenlit him, but he was pretty sure that was because the boy (he was going to call him that, especially when he was a whole two years older than him) was hungover during the first round of auditions, if his sluggish walk ( _that’s called “swagger,” Minseok-oppa_ ), and large sunglasses were to be used as basis. Or maybe he just wanted to pass people thoughtlessly, as a sort of revenge towards Kris, who engineered this entire thing and gave them more jobs to do, when the producers could be the ones getting busier. But the fact remained that Minseok thought he probably didn’t deserve it. So he really didn’t know why he was here.

Maybe it was because he was 28 years old. _Ah_. What was happening to the new generation and their respect for the elderly, honestly?

So after a few weeks of that, here they were. According to one of the staff members who gave him that packet of tissues as he was sweating all through his outfit, they were _actually_ trainees already. The judges were just going to rate them with letters, as was the grand Idol Producer tradition.

The only catch was, if they thought you were actually very much like _bullshit_ , without another word you will be asked to leave. That is, of course, if the one who greenlit you in the beginning fought for you to stay.

Which Minseok was sure to never happen to him. As much as he respected Z.Tao, that boy was seriously on _something_ when he accepted Minseok. He heard about the dark sides of the entertainment industry, so. . . .

There were around a hundred final trainees that were accepted for this round, and from the ones that he was able to see, not many were individual trainees like him. Hell—almost everyone had a company to represent, and all he had to show for himself was what? Being the sole representative of Kim Minji Entertainment?

The dancing boy in the corner finally sat down, breathing in and out in a calculated manner, probably meditating. But if you asked Minseok, that was the kind of calming down he saw in Milo commercials, from the decorated young athletes that pranced around while he fattened himself up with the Milo’s sugar. Too-long-don’t-read, that kid looked like he has his shit together.

Ha! Minseok couldn’t relate.

But still, there was no one sitting beside the kid for company. He was probably another individual trainee like him. But unlike him, this kid was enough of a formidable force that no one seemed to dare to be beside him. I mean, it was very obvious that Minseok was an individual trainee too, but that didn’t deter anyone from piling up beside him, squishing him too in the process.

“His name is Kai,” a soft voice spoke beside him. When he turned to his side, he was greeted with the owl-like eyes of another boy. He had a friendly smile in his face, which Minseok returned. Seeing this, the boy continued, “He’s really famous. Like, millions of followers on SNS.”

“Then why is he here?” Minseok asked.

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know? I think it’s because he thinks he’s going to win this thing anyway. But Sehun—” he said, pointing at another boy who was sitting on the floor and leaning against his legs, sleeping, “heard that Kai was apparently having trouble with a company that wanted to debut him. Heard something about a planned shitty dating rumor.”

“They close?”

The boy twitched his nose and snorted. “Hah. Sehun wishes. He’s one of Kai’s avid followers, and he’s even friends with some of his fanbase’s presidents. I’m pretty sure he’d lead a fanbase himself, but training takes a lot of time, you know.” The boy leaned closer to Minseok and whispered, “But if you ask me, I think Kai isn’t all that. My Sehun is better.” He even patted the boy’s head, which was leaning into his lap.

“You guys . . . ?” Minseok whispered back, signalling to the both of them.

Laughing softly, the boy shook his head. “No. Sehun’s practically my brother.” He stopped, seemingly in thought, before continuing. “Actually, he’s like my son. We’ve been training together for six years now.”

“Wait, how old are you?” Minseok couldn’t help himself but ask.

“I just turned twenty and Sehun’s turning seventeen this month,” the boy answered. Then, he quirked an eyebrow at Minseok. “You?” he asked.

He felt his throat suddenly turn dry. Maybe it was his sudden stall in answering, the excessive blinking, and the vigorous fidgeting that immediately ensued after being asked that question, because the boy looked apologetic as a result.

“Hey,” the boy said softly, his deep voice droning on, offering some amount of comfort for Minseok. “It’s okay if you’re not . . . as old as the usual trainee. I mean, we all come from different places, and well, we’re all here to have a chance, right? Besides, I know people who are in the same position as you—like our leader, Junmyeon—but I know they’re the ones who are usually the most hardworking, talented, and _deserving_ people here.” The boy smiled at him, his mouth forming a heart.

God. Where were the cameras? This was a prime reality show moment.

So, Minseok just smiled back at the boy. “Thank you . . . ?” he trailed off, not knowing the boy’s name.

“Kyungsoo. Doh Kyungsoo. Junmyeon suggested that I should use D.O. as my stage name, what do you think . . . ?”

“Minseok. And I think that’d sound great.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Junmyeon came back from finding snacks for Kyungsoo and Sehun, the usual pleasantries were exchanged. Minseok found out that although Kyungsoo mentioned him as their leader, they weren’t an established group at all. Well, they were once. See, all of them came from the same company—up until three months ago, when their attempted debut was foiled, because the company CEO decided to use the funds to spend on his divorce.

Combined with the physical abuse Sehun was going through already (which the boy lasted months before any of Kyungsoo and Junmyeon found out) and the ten years of training and effort Junmyeon exerted to no avail, they all left the company. They were even, according to Junmyeon, going to leave the industry if only Sehun hadn’t thrown such a huge tantrum about it. So, as the oldest and the leader, he had no choice but to find their way back into it, and Idol Producer sounded like a really great opportunity for that.

Minseok wasn’t blind. He could see that although Junmyeon was downplaying his interest in the industry, there was still a glimmer of hope present in his eyes. And knowing that he was only three years younger than himself hurt, because honestly, Minseok wanted _that_. He wanted that will, that motivation, because at the end of the day, that was what saved you.

And looking at Kyungsoo and Sehun, he realized that _that_ was what saved others too.

“. . . . I’ll be honest, I’m really nervous. Sure, we practiced all night for weeks already, but this is the big league, you know? This is life or death and— _God_ , I don’t even have a stage name yet. Should I have a sta—“

“Suho,” Minseok said. “I read somewhere that it means ‘guardian’. I think it suits you.”

Junmyeon patted Sehun’s head (who was now leaning on his knees, still asleep), and tucked Kyungsoo (who was also sleeping soundly) better at the crook of his left side. Then, he pointed at his right shoulder and smiled at Minseok, who was sitting on his right side. “You know, it’s a good thing I still have another side. It’d be perfect for you.”

 

 

Suddenly, the small lamps above the doors lit up. _Green_.

One of the producers came out. “Guys, get ready,” she said. “The judges are ready to see you.”

 

 


	2. S05E02: The Audition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still unedited.

The air was noticeably different after the staff member left the waiting room.

 

Remember Harry Potter and his lovely dementors? (If you don’t, you’re too young for this.) That was how everyone was like in the waiting room—soulless and unmoving, all except of the deep rise-and-falls of their chests, signalling they were still alive.

 

Even the dance prodigy stopped fidgeting, while the laughing trio turned eerily quiet.

 

The room was deathly silent, and Minseok swore that one minute longer and he could hear his heart thumping in his ears.

 

But he didn’t get a chance to listen to his bodily functions creaking and reminding him of his age, because suddenly, the room erupted into nervous chaos.

 

Amidst the sudden noise in the room, he remained still, like a still photograph in the middle of an action film. Maybe he was nervous, maybe he was scared—but in all honesty, he didn’t know anymore. He didn’t even know if he were still functioning. Logically speaking, his brain couldn’t malfunction with him dying or be left brain-dead. He was still pondering about the intricacies of his life like he had as much brain cells as Nietzsche, so he was probably still alive and kicking.

 

But did it feel like it? Nope. And right now, one thing was for sure: he’d rather stop _feeling_ like death, and instead start _acting_ like it. Minji would cry, for sure, but he knew she’d get over it soon. Plus, he already told her years ago that if he were to die suddenly, she would inherit all his TVXQ merch and effectively, his Cassiopeia legacy. Shim Changmin would not be left alone, thank you very much.

 

So his life was settled. All he needed to do was hold his breath, turn violet for a while, then _die_. Sure, it would probably create unnecessary trauma among the participants, but isn’t that what reality TV is about? At least Z.Tao didn’t need to poke Kris Wu with his wushu stick like what he was planning to do, according to Minji’s speculations.

 

He hoped iQiYi would at least give some money for his funeral with the ratings he’ll pull off with his death.

 

“Hey,” Junmyeon said beside him, squeezing his shoulder. “Are you okay?” The man looked alarmed, his earlier smile showing no signs of coming back. But to his surprise, Junmyeon looked alarmed _at_ him. Such a waste of time, truly, what is this man—

 

“Minseok, are you okay?” Junmyeon repeated, this time speaking louder.

 

“H-h-hng?” He wasn’t even going to claim that he said that, because at 28 years old, that wasn’t how people should be talking, really.

 

“You’re looking red. C’mon, breathe properly,” Junmyeon instructed. The man put one hand on Minseok’s back and stroked it. He even exaggerated his breathing, as if demonstrating to Minseok how a human being should actually function.

 

Huh. So maybe he is _actually_ brain-dead.

 

Minseok closed his eyes to try and block off his senses. The crawling tendrils of anxiety were prancing around his neck, leaving him feeling stifled and suffocated. His sister’s Chanel find in the hidden thrift stores of Hongdae was shifting into a boa constrictor for him, and that was one of the hallmark signs of a _Not Good™_ episode. Then, he was suddenly aware of the numbing of his fingers, which he’d love to be frostbite except for the fact that he was sweating buckets, despite the air conditioned room. Was this death? If so, why can’t it be easy?

 

His head was pounding too, swirling round and round and all he wanted to do right now was lie on his back, and never get up. If people would be disenfranchised of his death, he’d like to forever cosplay the Sleeping Beauty, but creepy Prince Charmings not allowed. Anything would be better than this—feeling like Death was poking him in the cheek, like a naughty schoolboy.

 

Yes, Death, he’d like to be with you already. Stop being an asshole.

 

“Minseok-hyung?” Sehun’s small voice called out to him. Another hand joined Junmyeon in trying to help him to breathe properly, and even without opening his eyes, he knew Kyungsoo’s owlish eyes were probably as large as Sehun’s were right now.

 

True enough, when he opened his eyes, both Kyungsoo and Sehun greeted him with concerned looks on his faces.

 

“H-he,” he croaked out, intending to greet the two like nothing was going on but ultimately failing. What a good prognosis for his performance later, it would seem. “Hey,” he tried again, this time actually finding his voice. “What’s with your faces? Did anybody die?” he said, trying to laugh a bit.

 

No one returned even an inch of a smile.

 

Then, after a beat, Sehun deadpanned, “I thought you were.”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, while Minseok was trying to method act a death scene, and Junmyeon, Sehun, and Kyungsoo (who were all raised too nicely by their mothers, in his opinion) were staying with him, most of the trainees already put their names in a mysterious box courtesy of the production team to determine the order of performances.

 

His three new friends didn’t speak a word, but he knew that them being the last ones to put their names in wasn’t a good thing. Everyone who knew basic human behavior knew that no one cared about those in the middle—it was either you go first, or you go last. And in the face of the sheer talent evident in their pool of trainees, it was probably best to be one of the earlier ones, especially considering the judgers were bound to have their patience meters filled by that time.

 

Being part of the last performers? In what smelled like a shoot to last until the wee hours of tomorrow morning? With a panel of judges that hated each other’s guts? With a panel of judges whose collective patience was negated by _Kris Wu_ and _Z.Tao_?

 

Minseok knew that Junmyeon’s comforting smile at him was something that he truly, _truly_ didn’t deserve.

 

“Let’s not be too freaked out about this,” Kyungsoo said, squeezing their youngest’s hand. Despite the calmness that he was trying to show, the boy was fidgeting with his feet too much to truly be relaxed. He, together with the rest of the trainees, looked at the production staff who were busy compiling the final list of the order of performances.

 

They sat there watching, while some of the other trainees were nervously pacing down the hallway. Junmyeon wasn’t with them, as the leaders were called earlier to talk to the production staff. Their leader—Minseok was including himself in this one, especially since Junmyeon already took him under his wing and represented him the meeting—had rolled their eyes when he was called. He even grumbled something about “politics”, to Minseok’s confusion.

 

“How can we relax?” Sehun countered. “Junmyeon-hyung brought everything he had to take us here. There’s no way he’d still have anything to offer later.” The youngest leaned back, turning away from Kyungsoo, in favor of wrapping himself around Minseok.

 

Meanwhile, Kyungsoo just exhaled loudly, and sat beside Sehun silently.

 

“‘Offer’?” Minseok asked, confused. According to the preliminary contract that they signed, all they had to bring in this competition was a bunch of training clothes, a sheer amount of willpower and determination, and /preferably/, talent. If you didn’t have the latter, it was recommended that you have enough humor, looks, or charm. Maybe you’d even like to flirt with the other participants, but good luck getting your face on-screen. Sure, it was 2019, but people still refused to vaccinate their kids—was their hope that they’d stop being homophobic?

 

See, this was Minseok’s problem. He got too distracted at times. He didn’t even notice that both Kyungsoo and Sehun got quiet, silently looked at each other knowingly, and didn’t answer his question.

 

But distracted he might be, he wasn’t stupid. So, he tried again. “What ‘offer’ are you talking about, guys?” Still no answer. He took a deep breath and spoke louder. “Yah, what are you hiding from hyung, huh?” he asked, pulling the _hyung_ card. He even lightly punched Sehun, trying to ease off the blow.

 

Kyungsoo and Sehun shared one of their glances again, which Minseok was quick to butt in. Eventually, Kyungsoo let out another sigh, and met Minseok’s gaze directly.

 

“You’ve never trained under a company, have you, hyung?” he asked.

 

Minseok shook his head no.

 

Kyungsoo nodden, then continued, his head bowed down, looking at the ground. “The industry . . . it’s ruthless, you know. You spend years training for nothing certain, in shitty companies who sometimes like to use you as a punching bag—” Minseok spared a glance at Sehun, but the boy just fidgeted with his fingers as he stared at the floor, “—or as _something_ worse, and it’s so shitty to feel relieved that we never experienced any of that. Then sometimes, the people themselves, there’s like this culture of bringing each other down, you know?”

 

Kyungsoo pointed at Junmyeon, who was in a huddled circle with who Minseok presumed as one of the producers. They were busy talking, and unfortunately, were also too far from them for him to hear anything. “That’s the production staff trying to, at the very least, keep that culture in check. They’re talking to the leaders of all the groups to probably determine the final order for the performances, because otherwise, everyone would try to one-up one another, even _before_ we all stepped into the stage.”

 

“What do you mean?” Minseok asked.

 

Kyungsoo just smiled darkly, his eyes betraying not a single shred of mirth. “Come on, hyung, use your imagination a little. Imagine we’re in Game of Thrones, but instead of actually dying, our careers just take the toll. But there’s still bribery, sweet talking, cheating. . . . All sorts of stuff. Sometimes worse that that.”

 

The younger boy looked at Minseok again, and he saw the maturity in the boy’s gaze, one that he didn’t know if he envied or pitied. He truly missed a lot, not being part of the industry and the system as early as most of the trainees had been, and honestly, he didn’t know if he could stroke it up to luck or not. Coming into this competition—his first competition, mind you—he felt terrible about himself and his lack of experience, but right now, he was actually rethinking that. These kids grew up too quickly, just to chase a dream that they weren’t even sure would be granted to them.

 

His sight explored and landed on Junmyeon’s back again. Suddenly, he got a glimpse of a young Junmyeon, his eyes alight with hope and determination, untainted by whatever filth that he had experienced throughout the years.

 

Minseok felt his stomach turn.

 

While wrapped around his arm, Sehun spoke up, albeit softly. “Don’t worry too much about him. Not that he doesn’t need it, but he doesn’t like it. He’s been here for 10 years, he’s seen it all. We just don’t know how much he’s seen, much less _experienced_ , but no matter what, he’d never want us to worry about him,” Sehun said, squeezing one of his hands for reassurance.

 

Still, Minseok didn’t know about that. Junmyeon seemed like the type of person who Life decided to fuck around with and forced to grow up too quickly. If there were anyone that needed someone to worry about, it’d be him. And even without a full day of knowing him, Minseok was ready to volunteer.

 

Kyungsoo spoke up too, his tone a tad bit lighter than before. “Actually, the people in this show seem nice. I’ve heard the bad stuff from other shows. Besides, Junmyeon-hyung would never bring us to more harm,” Kyungsoo said with much conviction.

 

“Then what’s happening there?” Minseok asked, pointing at the round meeting that was still ongoing. “And what ‘offer’?”

 

Kyungsoo just shrugged. “Well if there’s one thing that’s the least dirty in this game we’re all playing, it’s when money is involved, I guess. A few bundle of bills could come handy, especially when no one, except the four judges, are in control of what’s going to happen to us from here on. This part is probably the only remaining ones where you can still, you know . . . call-a-friend, or use your other lifelines, if you know what I mean.”

 

“Junmyeon’s spending?” he asked. “Wait, is he spending for m— Wait, he doesn’t really need that,” Minseok stuttered. From the way Junmyeon was dressed, he felt ridiculous that he didn’t put two-by-two together and saw that the man was _rich_. Sure, he was the one wearing a designer sweater, and Junmyeon was the one in a matching ensemble with Kyungsoo and Sehun, but he was sure that the watch adorning Junmyeon’s wrist wasn’t scoured from the barrel of a basket in a thrift store somewhere.

 

Tucked in the crook of his neck, Sehun shook his head, and he could hear the boy laughing a bit. “Hah! We wish.”

 

Kyungsoo pinched Sehun. “Shut up, Se.” He turned to Minseok. “Junmyeon never played /that/ game. He hated it. Said that if he wanted to have under-the-table deals, he’d have gone into business like what his dad wanted. Plus, we don’t really have anything to /offer/ like that right now. All of our collective wallets--which is primarily Junmyeon’s, since he’s the one with a job—are scraped to the bottom when we left our agency.”

 

“Not that the agency did anything much in times like these,” Sehun muttered.

 

From what Minseok gathered, the company that the boys left (read: escaped) wasn’t that big, otherwise it would’ve stuck to his memory already. But still, it couldn’t hurt to ask, right? “Lemme guess: you guys came from a small company? One that operated in a garage somewhere?” he asked, joking a bit.

 

Sehun laughed and straightened up. “Well, kind of. I mean, it’s not a garage; just a small building. But it is in Gangnam,” he said.

 

“It doesn’t really matter if the company’s big or small or like what we have been for the past few months, just Junmyeon-hyung’s apartment. If they’re shit, the big ones would be too eager to kick you out once they’re sick of you, while the small ones would chew you up and spit you to the sidewalk once they’re done sucking all flavor from you.” Kyungsoo shrugged. “So really, all that matters is if they _care_.”

 

* * *

 

Finally, the camera exposure that Minseok (and Minji, bless her) prepared for finally came. Sure, it was around two hours after the mysterious leaders’ meeting, he hasn’t had lunch yet, and his foundation was threatening to melt off his face, but still—the cameras were there.

 

Once the cameras were there, the show will finally start, and his demise will finally be videotaped. But at least, all will be over soon.

 

Then, it seemed as if his stomach was too eager for the camera exposure and decided to let itself be known by grumbling loudly. Without a word, Junmyeon took the sandwich he was eating, halved it, and gave one part to Minseok.

 

“So what’s our game plan?” Kyungsoo asked, looking at their leader.

 

“What game plan? We’re not athletes,” Junmyeon snorted.

 

“Dancing is practically a sport!” Sehun protested, still wrapped around one of Minseok’s arms. At first, he thought it was just affection, but the boy’s whispered comments on how he’s like a cuter stuffed toy compared to Kyungsoo told him otherwise.

 

Kyungsoo rolled his eyes, still busily munching into his fourth Snickers. Chocolate helped with nervousness, according to him. With how snappy the boy was being, especially as their performance time got nearer, Minseok couldn’t find it in him to argue.

 

“Who said we’re only here to dance? _Kai_ ?“ Kyungsoo asked mockingly. “Just because that’s the _only_ thing he’s going to do doesn’t mean we’re going to do the same.” Then, seemingly as an afterthought, he added, “But of course, you’re welcome to do so any time.”

 

“Stop being mean to him. You’re just jealous,” Sehun retorted, pouting. “No pirouettes, no opinion.”

 

“No talent in singing, no opinion.”

 

“No followers in SNS, no opinion.”

 

“Can’t get a real relationship, no opinion.”

 

“Hey!” Sehun pouted even more, to the other boy’s delight.

 

“Hah! I win!” Kyungsoo exclaimed, flicking the end of Sehun’s nose.

 

“Is it really wise to spend all your energy arguing?” Junmyeon interfered, sounding like a tired mother. “Also, for our game plan—let’s just do it exactly as we rehearsed, and give our best. If the judges hate it, well . . .” He smiled, but Minseok could see the dark circles under the younger man’s eyes. “Guess that’s it, then.”

 

Suddenly, both Kyungsoo and Sehun both became silent. “Hyung . . . “ Sehun started.

 

Junmyeon just ruffled the boy’s hair. “Who knows? Maybe your mom’s dream of having a son who’s a doctor would finally come true,” he teased.

 

The youngest wrinkled his nose. “Gross. That sounds like too much work,” he commented.

 

Kyungsoo pulled Sehun’s ear. “And being an idol isn’t?” he asked haughtily.

 

Sehun pointed to the side of his forehead. “I’m talking about here, hyung.”

 

“Besides,” Junmyeon said, glancing at Minseok. Then, he leaned in closer to the two, stage-whispering, “We can’t really discuss much of our game plan when we have a competitor here.”

 

Minseok rolled his eyes. “As if eavesdropping will help me. What are you even planning to do? Eat fire?”

 

There was a naughty glint in Sehun’s eyes. “Nope,” he said, popping the _p_ sound. “But I’m sure Kris Wu is going to love us when we’re out there already.” Sehun smirked, then winked at Junmyeon. “Right, hyung?”

 

This time, the hand that was ruffling Sehun’s hair, pulled at it roughly.

 

“Sleep on your own tonight,” Junmyeon threatened.

 

* * *

 

 

The system of the show was still reminiscent of the previous seasons. Before the judges ever came in and introduced themselves (which according to the murmurings and gossip that Minseok heard in the waiting room, everyone waited for eagerly—well, except Junmyeon who was still fighting off Sehun’s jokes), the trainees were to choose their seats in the one hundred chairs arranged in a mini pyramid.

 

 _How obvious_ , Minseok thought. What could be any other way to best encourage the competition and raise the stakes than make them sit for hours in a chair formation that both scream the main elements of the program: a triangular hierarchy and the ever-pressing reminder that at any time, they could fall down.

 

Down like his parents’ expectations on him, amirite?

 

Minseok would normally laugh at the joke, but self-deprecation wasn’t a good soothing aid for the nerves that was threatening to overcome him once again.

 

Luckily, due to Junmyeon’s excellent negotiating skills—which entailed no illegal activity, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, they managed to choose their seats after around the first twenty trainees. It wasn’t the most ideal, since as there were only a few criteria to get attention that early on in the competition: a) be really popular already (looking at you, dancing prodigy who was apparently Sehun’s _Kai_ ); b) be from a really big company (they all gave that up already, didn’t they—and well, he never really had a chance for that to begin with); and c) be _hot_. Now, for the last one, Minseok prided himself as someone with a good eye for aesthetics (thank you, Miss Kim Minji), and he could see that his newfound friends could fall into that criteria.

 

But maybe they should be given a few more years first, especially Sehun and Kyungsoo. Junmyeon was probably the nearest, but even makeup couldn’t hide the stress and the hunger-panged stare.

 

This is probably also the part where Minseok reins himself and screamed a disclaimer into the void: he’s just being honest, and anyone who has been disenfranchised could go to his sister Minji, because it probably just rubbed off from her.

 

So to tally it all up, it looked like they didn’t have much of a chance at first. But that’s why there are two bonus criteria to grasp the audience’s (and primarily, the _editing team_ ’s) attention right now: a) a good background story; b) funny and charismatic personality; and c) sheer, _sheer_ talent.

 

Good thing Minseok’s new friends had all three. Too bad he didn’t even manage to land one. Well, at least he had a backup career plan as the boys’ number one fansite after all of this was over.

 

When it had been their turn to pick, Sehun went all out, clinging to his hyungs like the maknae that he was. Minseok would have snorted at the boy’s reaction—at what he thought was pure hamming up for the cameras, but he saw the genuine awe in the boy’s eyes. It was like Harry Potter discovering magic for the first time.

 

(Hmm. Another Harry Potter reference—would the audience find that relatable, or annoying? It didn’t really matter for Minseok, probably, not when he was going home after this round anyway.)

 

But besides, how couldn’t Sehun resist being awestruck at the set? Even though Minseok watched Idol Producer and all the idol training programs almost religiously (he’s still having his fingers crossed in a program that TVXQ will judge), and saw the famous chair pyramid, it was nothing compared to seeing it in the flesh. To know that in a matter of seconds, you’re going to be sitting there, waiting for a two-minute chance to change your entire life.

 

He was pretty sure he could get those transparent plastic chairs cheap on EBay, but sitting on one of them felt like they were thrones made for him—if the chair ranked #99 could even be considered a throne. They were uncomfortable, sure, but _damn_ did he feel like he was a part of something good. Like he could be _something good_.

 

But he was quick to tamper down the false hope simmering inside of him. They said crashing down from an intense high sucked, but the worst crash wasn’t from a high induced by drugs, but from the euphoria that came from deluding yourself. If there were anything that his 28 years of existence had provided him, at the very least, it was _that_ lesson.

 

Kyungsoo was the one conscious enough to play it for the _aegyo_. This one, Minseok knew because the younger boy literally pulled him so that both of them would look cute for the camera. Meanwhile, Junmyeon just tagged along them, quiet and content—primarily because he got instant recognition points just for being the leader.

 

That was, according to Kyungsoo, who apparently, was the expert in strategy when it comes to marketing and PR. The boy had just shrugged earlier, when he saw how surprised Minseok was. There were a lot of things that you had to learn when you suddenly find yourself without a company, he said. And they, especially, had to pick up slack too, because Junmyeon, who was then learning the basics of contractual law and finances, couldn’t handle everything. Have you ever seen a fifteen-year-old trying to choreograph a dance routine? Go to the Oh house.

 

Hence, Minseok let himself be pulled by Kyungsoo, as the boy worked his magic. It seemed to have work, if the grimaces and snorts (hidden from the camera, of course) and the _aww_ s and _uwu_ s from the ladies in the production staff were to be considered. The satisfied grin in Junmyeon’s face as he sat in his chair (the 100th) also seemed like a good sign.

 

As the other trainees flocked in, each with their own special stint, Minseok let himself be settled in. He felt odd—there was still a lingering sense of his nerves there, but it wasn’t as overpowering as before. Maybe the new friends helped, maybe it was—

 

He looked at the laughing trio that was beside him earlier in the waiting area. The tallest one was jumping, then he doubled into hysterical laughter. His two friends laughed along him, and all of them just looked extremely happy with one another. But aside from that, there was a glint in their eyes that even without a mirror, Minseok knew he reflected too.

 

 _Excitement._ It has been a while since he subjected himself in trying out and eventually being _in_ this competition (no matter how impending his being _out_ was), and he must have forgotten what led him to this place in the first place. Yes, meeting TVXQ was right at the top of his list, but second to that, well, _this_ ~~_was_~~ _is his dream._ And here he was now only a few steps away from it.

 

Junmyeon, who was still smiling, leaned closer to him and whispered, “We did good out there, I think.”

 

“I can’t believe this is practically a performance,” he commented, watching the other trainees choose their chairs. Most of the lower positions were occupied already, with some of the one nearest to them used by some trainees who, earlier in the days, were reeking with arrogance. Minseok wrinkled his nose. At least when they chose the last positions, it was more of trying to find their luck in their lucky numbers (his and Junmyeon’s were coincidentally consecutive ones, 99 and 100) than showing performative humility. Sehun and Kyungsoo just had no choice but to go along with them. But these other guys. . . . They deserved a harsh glare from Kyungsoo.

 

Beside him, Junmyeon just snickered. “Everything is a performance in this place, Minseok, because everywhere is a stage. The true winners in this competition aren’t the ones who get chosen, but the ones who manage to stay true to themselves even when they’re on stage already.” The leader nodded to the loud boys a few seats away from Kyungsoo. “Those are Donggeun and Hyeongtak, the rap duo from Superstar Ent. They’re pretending to be best friends, but they fought over the same girl months ago already.”

 

“Wow, how do you know all of this?” Minseok wondered aloud.

 

Junmyeon shrugged. “News travels fast when you know the right people.”

 

Then, Sehun butted in. “Or the _rap_ people,” he whispered teasingly.

 

Junmyeon’s expression suddenly turned sour. “I swear to God, Sehun, I’d. . . .” he started, trailing off when he noticed that the boy’s attention was on Kyungsoo already.

 

Sensing his distress, Minseok patted his back. “It’s tough raising a teenager, hmm?” he commented. He smiled at Junmyeon, at the very least, trying to comfort him. After all the events that happened in the entire day, that they’ve been through even in the small span of time, and that Junmyeon helped him with, Minseok thought that he should at least return the favor.

 

But then, Junmyeon fixed him with a stare so serious his smile dropped down a bit. “What’s wrong?” Minseok asked.

 

Junmyeon sighed heavily and looked away. He slouched, resting his chin on his hand, and inadvertently hiding his mouth, acting as if he was completely engrossed in observing the other trainees choose their seats. Then, he cocked his head to the side, signaling Minseok to come closer. He did.

 

“Kris Wu,” Junmyeon whispered. “Later, when it’s our turn, and throughout all of our turns here in this competition, pretend that you don’t know him.”

 

“But I don’t?” Minseok asked, confused. Then it dawned on him. “Do you . . . You know him?”

 

The other man stayed silent for a while, acting as if he’s observing the other trainees, but Minseok knew that it was just Junmyeon heavily pondering on his next few words. It was always like that when someone was going to give big news, so he prepared himself.

 

After everything that happened in his life, particularly being in this show, Minseok has learned that nothing is impossible. For all we know, Kris Wu could be Junmyeon’s secret twin brother. No one can deny the excellence of the cosmetics surgery industry in East Asia, anyway.

 

Junmyeon finally spoke. “We have . . .  we have history.”

 

This was an awkward topic that they were venturing into, and Minseok would’ve felt weird over talking about this, but there was something that told him that Junmyeon, together with Kyungsoo and Sehun, were going to be permanent parts of his life. He didn’t even question if they were _close_ enough for this anymore. In fact, it was almost as if they knew each other in an alternate life.

 

So, as they both stared at the other trainees, who were now being teased (read: camera-friendly bullying) by Donggeun and Hyeongtak, he joked, “Did you steal each other’s girlfriends?”

 

There was no mirth in Junmyeon’s eyes when he laughed and shook his head. “It would be better if we did.”

 

Junmyeon looked at Minseok directly, and oddly, despite the fact that the other boy was the one who seemed to be baring it all, Minseok was the one who felt vulnerable.

 

“Then?” Minseok asked, trying to alleviate the discomfort the silence was bringing him. “Finances? Did he steal money from you, or something?”

 

The leader smiled, but it refused to reach his eyes. “I guess you could say that we stole each other’s hearts?”

 

Beside Minseok, in seat no. 98, Sehun snorted. “Gay,” he whispered, rolling his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

After that revelation, the entire chair selection passed by Minseok like a blur. It was usually the same thing—trainees from other companies, small and big ones, former idols who have debuted before (and were most likely fucked over by their agencies) wanting a second chance, actors or models wanting to transition into being an idol, and individual trainees like him, who just wanted to take a shot at this competition.

 

There was only one person actually who shared the last category as him, and it was Kai. The boy, which Sehun mentioned to be only older than him by a few months, walked into the room looking . . . nervous and shy. It was odd for Minseok, to be honest, especially he saw how the boy moved in the waiting area.

 

Fuck, if he were able to dance like that, he’d be the proudest person in the room.

 

As Kai fidgeted in reluctance as he was choosing his chair—because he was the last one and the only one left was the no.1 chair, Kyungsoo bet that his shy aura was only part of a “persona”. Of course, their resident fanboy was quick to shush his hyung, stepping on Kyungsoo’s foot.

 

But whether Kai’s shyness was a front or not, that didn’t change the fact that there was only one other individual trainee in this competition other than him, and it was _Kai_. Let’s now file that under reason no. 53132 why his prediction of a short-lived existence in Idol Producer was getting more real every succeeding second.

 

Here Minseok was, no amount of training at all, with singing talent only fit for his neighbor’s karaoke, and without some sort of backup agencies, or friends. Junmyeon, Kyungsoo, and Sehun would have counted, but _they were each other’s first._ He knew that. He respected that. All he had was who? Minji?

 

As Kai sat on top of the pyramid, his hands clasped together and back ramrod straight, Minseok thought about how they were the only ones in the competition who were truly alone. No, scratch that. Kai had millions of followers; he was never going to be alone.

 

Besides, Kai also had his talent. So really, Minseok shouldn’t be worrying about him. What he really should be worrying about is how he was going to survive, especially when—

 

The instrumental of the show’s theme song blared loudly from the speakers that Minseok didn’t even know existed in the set. Then, one of the producers, holding a large megaphone, said, “Everyone, on their places. We’ll start the introductions soon. Judges, cue!”

 

_Fuck._

 

Minseok didn’t even hear the producers counting loudly to the entrance of the judges. All he did was join his fellow trainees as they all collectively held their breaths.

 

Then, the doors opened, and out came the four men who will decide their fate, like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. (Which in hindsight, seemed actually quite applicable for Minseok’s case.)

 

Z.Tao came out first, eyes lined with kohl, his white hair slicked back cleanly, showing his shaved sides which were still black—how that was possible Minseok didn’t know. Showbiz magic, probably. He looked as bored and as disinterested as someone who was paid to do this show could be. With an expressionless face, Z.Tao and his intimidating round eyes scanned over the trainees, and now all Minseok wanted was to go home and hug his mama.

 

One of the production staff handed Z.Tao a microphone, and he took it even without taking his eyes off of the trainees. The singer (and dancer, rapper, model, actor, producer, CEO, dog daddy—) looked impeccable in his all-black ensemble, wearing a fancy suit with a fancier coat that had weird flaps of extra cloth in front, reminding Minseok of his sister’s experimental designs for school. He’d love to make fun of it as the judge looked like a darker Edward Scissorhands cosplayer, but that suit probably cost more than his entire life combined. When the judge moved to fix his hair, showing what looked like a Rolex in the process, that was when Minseok knew that Z.Tao’s entire outfit probably cost more that his life and his future children’s _combined._

 

Not long after, he was joined by Kris Wu, and Minseok felt Junmyeon stiffen beside him. Wu looked like the opposite of Z.Tao, wearing a crisp white jumpsuit, it seemed. It looked more like a onesie, to be honest, with crisscross suspenders of some sort. In contrast to Z.Tao’s undertaker get up, Wu looked like an angel ready to deliver Minseok to his final destination. But from the grim look in the rapper (and singer, model, actor, producer, jewelry designer—), he looked like he’d be the one to end Minseok first. Judging by his chances, that seemed most likely.

 

Wu greeted Z.Tao with a single-armed hug, confirming the rumors that yes, we now live in an impossible simulation wherein they have finally, _actually_ , reconciled. Minseok sensed the fanboys in their crowd trying to stifle their joy, but ultimately, he was distracted by Junmyeon’s shaking hand. Trying to comfort his leader, he took it into his hand, pulled it closer to him, and squeezed it. The man gave him a grateful smile in return.

 

Unfortunately for Minseok and his future spawns who might have wanted a famous idol for a forefather, it was also the same time in which Kris Wu decided to peruse this season’s selection of idol trainees. The moment he returned his gaze on the two judges present in front of them, Wu was staring right at their direction—more particularly, right at their enclasped hands. He would have let go quickly, but apparently, Junmyeon was oblivious and even leaned closer, bumping shoulders with him. Meanwhile, Sehun and Kyungsoo beside him were just smirking devilishly. Guess _they_ weren’t oblivious.

 

The remaining two judges entered the set together. Apparently the judges’ concept was monochrome, because Zhang Yixing was head-to-toe dressed in a red suit, while Luhan probably didn’t get the memo and just wore a bright blue tracksuit. Now that Minseok squinted a bit, Luhan seemed to be wearing head-to-toe Adidas too, from the tracksuit, to the shoes, to even the wristbands adorning on his wrists. He wasn’t dumb; having a fashion major for a sister made you recognize what was designer and what was not—but unfortunately, he still hasn’t reached the point wherein he could recognize brands by sight. But what Luhan was wearing . . . now that was easy. How hard could it be when his entire wardrobe was dominated by the brand that he endorsed? He hasn’t listened much to the man’s songs, but out of the four judges, Minseok felt closest to him. Maybe it was because he got naked so much in front of him in the Adidas dressing room. Whoever thought of putting advertisement posters inside the dressing room needed to reevaluate their lives.

 

Zhang Yixing cleared his throat and Minseok realized he had been daydreaming about Luhan for a moment now. Again, he’d like to reiterate to whoever was listening that he’s not really a fan (Shim Changmin demanded loyalty); they just had a casual bond over Adidas. And no, the redness and heat on his cheeks were from the sudden heat in the air-conditioned set, not because when he looked back at Luhan again, he saw the singer (and model, actor, producer, dancer, and Guan Xiaotong’s ex-boyfriend—) staring back at him. _No._ Those weren’t butterflies in his stomach. Was there something up with Junmyeon’s sandwich earlier? Meanwhile, there was something thumping in his chest. _Fuck._ There it was, all the signs—there was no denying it. Oh, hello, Kim Minseok’s heart. You haven’t woken up in a long while, have you?

 

Luhan broke his accidental eye contact with Minseok and nodded curtly towards his fellow members of the lawsuit line. It was a gross attempt of trying to be professional, which he soon broke as he launched himself into hugging Z.Tao, who laughed and hugged him back. Then he gave Wu the bro-est of all bro handshakes, while subtly pulling Lay closer to the two.

 

Z.Tao nodded towards Lay.

 

Kris Wu wouldn’t even look at him.

 

Guess _those_ rumors were true.

 

Even the production staff fell silent, and eager to ease the tension, Lay cleared his throat again and turned towards the trainees. He smiled brightly, his cheeks showing both of his dimples. Beside him, everyone except Kris Wu smiled. Well, if you could count Z.Tao’s menacing smirk as one.

 

With them standing together, side-by-side, you would have thought they didn’t spend 2014 breaking apart. But whatever happened, however it all might have happened, something good must still have come from it. Here they were, the most best-selling and influential artists in Asia right now (and probably, _ever_ ), joining to form and mentor a boygroup.

 

Z.Tao, whose face you couldn’t walk at least two blocks in China and Japan without seeing him—

Kris Wu, the hip-hop superstar who bridged the East and West—

Luhan, who jumps from stadium to stadium across Asia—

Zhang Yixing, who somehow manages to do three years worth of work in a single month, only to produce decades worth of success—

 

All of them were together standing in front of them, assessing whether they can make it— _whether they have_ it.

 

The pressure is on, the stakes are high, and Minseok has never been more scared than before.

 

Zhang Yixing looked at his fellow judges and nodded. Then, without missing a beat, they bowed together at the trainees.

 

“Good morning. I’m Huang Zitao, I’ll be teaching you dance.”

 

“Kris. Rap.”

 

“Hi, everyone! I’m Luhan! I’m in charge of music.”

 

“And my name is Zhang Yixing, the nation’s producer.”

 

All together, they said, “Welcome to Idol Producer.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me to everyone who liked the start of this fic: y O U ??? ? ? L I KE TH I SS? well things are just about to go downhill from here
> 
> can't really write a fic without some good ol' breakdowns, can we?  
> anyway, on a serious note:  
> thank you for the response for this fic uwuwuwuwu you are all appreciated. this chapter got a bit dark, i think, but it's a good gauge to see how this will go, //if// it still will go h ah ha (and if you'll go along with it ha ahahah h ). 
> 
> on a more serious note:  
> i don't how the industry works; these are all just the products of my 3am sleep deprivation. but since this fic tends to delve into the entertainment industry, there /might/ be stuff that might be problematic (i guess? ? ?) or off-putting for some.
> 
> also superstar ent. doesn't exist afaik, so do the two people whose names i've already forgotten since i just randomized them online. i just didn't want to put real idol to be the shitty trainees here. there might be real idols here though, i'll just have to venture out of exo. maybe when that new soloist from sm debuts on april ?? ?? that chen guy?? chin? tsehn?

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: is this fic going to be good? probably not. 
> 
> my brain refuses to make any effort at all outside from working on getting out of my rancid university, so i dug up the stupidest prompt i conceived in a 3 am one fateful night sometime in the last four months. then i decided to sprinkle my dried-up writing skills to it and—
> 
> i'm so sorry for this 😔, but still, here it is 😜 i’ll come back to this every time i’m not that busy 😌


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